Author's note:

Bucky keeping a low profile post-CATWS as a maintenance man in St. Louis keeps calling to me, so I'm going to take a deeper dive into that world. I want to revel in post-CATWS Bucky living a quiet life, learning how to be a person in a place filled with quirky neighbors, and maybe take him on more comic-book canon adventures.

My plan, such as it is, is to accept MCU canon up to CATWS, including the events in The Avengers but not in Age of Ultron. No CACW, probably no Thanos, though who knows. That's waaaay in the distance, though. For now, I'll focus in on the smaller story of Bucky recovering, maybe with Avengers-types showing up now and then to disrupt his world and to provide support and aggravation. I only have a very hazy idea of where this might eventually end up, but for now, he's living the best life he can in his dumpy Dutchtown sanctuary, starting to read books and get to know his neighbors better.

You might want to read or re-familiarize yourself with Mr. Fix It for full effect. But if you don't want to, I'll put a glossary of a few of the OC's in the endnotes.

Thanks to Imbecamiel for the beta! Errors are mine, not hers, and be warned that it's highly likely I have forgotten my own continuity details, so just... be nice if you correct me.

Chapter 1: Mop Buckets and Memories

Bucky nudged the battered yellow mop bucket to the left with his foot. As he swiped the string mop around the floor in the spot where the bucket had been sitting, a wave of pine-scented cleaner washed a memory up from a dingy corner of his brain.

"Make sure you polish that floor so bright I can shave in it, you hear me, Private?"

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes."

"Maybe after a week of cleaning the floors with a toothbrush, you'll learn how to tell time and not miss the curfew."

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes."

The mottled green-and-gray linoleum of the Tholozon Avenue apartment building that the erstwhile Sergeant Barnes was currently mopping was about seventy years past ever being shiny again, no matter how many toothbrushes, mops, disinfectant or wax he slapped against it. As soon as the water dried, it would show every dull minute of its too-long life. He grimaced. Kinda like me most days.

He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes and kept pushing the mop.

Midnight was, in general, the best time to mop the floors. Most of the residents were tucked up in bed instead of coming and going, especially in the cold and dreary weather of late February. But just as he drew even to apartment 2D, the door flung open. Bucky was proud of himself for not immediately jabbing the mop handle through Charlie Bender's sternum. Charlie, he of the hazelnut coffee creamer obsession and pinochle with Kowalski, stepped out, his thumbs busy typing on his phone, oblivious to how close he had just come to having his next pinochle game with St. Peter instead of his buddies. Beyond him, Bucky glimpsed a living room crammed with enough computer paraphernalia to launch a space station. A strong odor of coffee overpowered the pine scent. "Watch your step," Bucky said.

Charlie glanced up from his phone, blinked at Bucky and then at the floor. "Oh. I can wait," he muttered, then stepped back into his apartment and slammed the door. He never stopped texting.

Well. At least he hadn't tried to stand around and chat. Or invite Bucky in to play pinochle. Bucky might have been a card shark in his past life, for all he knew, but nowadays he didn't have the first clue how to play any card games, nor did he want to learn. Too much talking.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, then let out it. He'd read an article in a magazine he'd found on the ground by the dumpster out back that said deep breathing could help bring about calmness and focus. He tried it again.

Breathe.

Focus.

It definitely helped. He had no idea why, but the article was right.

He dunked the mop in the bucket. Sloshed it around. Jammed it in the wringer and yanked the lever. Slopped the still-dripping mop back on the floor. Swish-swish-swish. Dunk, slosh, jam, yank, swish-swish-swish, repeat. He didn't mind mopping floors. Once he got in a rhythm, he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel anything. Just had to focus on cleaning the floor and maybe remember long-ago times when being a sergeant in the Army was simple and straightforward and involved a lot of yelling at fellas and making them clean things when there weren't any Nazis around to kill.

Another door farther down the hall opened a crack.

What the hell. Is the whole building still awake?

Music blasted, a single eye glared at him, then the door slammed and the screeching howls and thumping bass cut off. Jackie-something. Listened to punk rock any time she was home and, as far as Bucky could tell, only came out at night. He wondered idly if she was a vampire.

"There's no such thing as vampires, Buck. Be reasonable." Steve shoved another huge bite of shit-on-a-shingle in his mouth. He chewed with a blissful expression, like it was the best steak from Delmonico's instead of Army-regulation chipped beef on toast.

They say hunger seasons all dishes, but Bucky's hunger wasn't anywhere near strong enough for him to stomach shit-on-a-shingle. His tin plate rattled as he shoved his portion across the table toward Steve and resumed his argument, raising his voice a little to be heard over the rain drumming on the tent canvas over their heads. "How do you know for sure? I mean, northern Italy ain't all that far away from Transylvania. One coulda come down here from there. War displaces everybody."

"Even vampires?"

"Something got to those sheep back there."

"Buck. It was stray dogs. Not vampires. Not werewolves. Just cold and hungry dogs. Now shut up before Dugan hears you and gets the heebie-jeebies even worse than he already has." He shoved Bucky's plate back at him. "And eat your share. Can't have my sergeant collapsing from hunger."

Bucky shoved it back. "It ain't just heebie—"

Jackie's door opened again, this time wide enough to let him see her entire face, or at least the part that wasn't hidden by a wave of jet black hair. This week there was a blue streak in it. Last week had been bright yellow.

He stopped mopping.

"Kowalski told me you like to read," she muttered.

He thought about The Hobbit book that was sitting on his nightstand. He was six chapters in and so far, though it wasn't exactly his cuppa, it wasn't horrible. He could relate to getting dragged off on an adventure he wanted no part in. He didn't know what the hell kinda books he used to like anyway, so it was a start. "Uh, I guess."

The door slammed again, then a moment later re-opened. A booted foot kicked a cardboard box toward him. "Kowalski told me you were lookin' for Tarzan books. Got the whole set, was my great grandpa's. Don't want 'em back, I ain't into Tarzan, plus they mess with my asthma. Pass 'em along to whoever when you're done." The door started to close, then reopened. "And, uh, thanks for, you know, keeping the building so clean. Last guy was a lazy bastard that never did nothin'." The door slammed shut before he could respond, and shortly after the music resumed even louder than before. Some angry fella shouting about anarchy in England. Didn't really sound much like music to Bucky. No way you could dance to—

"You don't like music?" Bucky asked. Damn, Peggy Carter could fill out a dress like few dames Bucky had ever seen, but she didn't even give him a glance as she answered.

"I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

"Then what are we waitin' for?"

She still didn't look at him. Just locked eyes with Steve. "The right partner."

Which any sap could tell wasn't James Buchanan Barnes. You'd have to be stone blind not to see the way she was lookin' at Steve.

Lookin' at Steve. What the hell.

She walked away while Bucky was still lost in his dismayed thoughts. He shook his head. "I'm invisible. I'm… I'm turning into you. It's a horrible dream."

"Don't take it so hard," Steve said as he slapped him on the shoulder. "Maybe she's got a friend."

God almighty. He'd lost a girl to Steve Rogers, a man who could barely speak to a dame even after he'd been turned into the living embodiment of a Greek god. The world really had been turned upside that year.

He shook off the memories, leaned the mop against the wall and walked cautiously over to the box. He flipped open the cardboard flaps. The box was filled with reddish-brown hardcover books that smelled musty enough to have killed asthmatic, pre-Greek God Steve Rogers in one breath. The one on top had Tarzan and the Apes emblazoned on it in faded gold type. He pulled it out and flipped it open. The pages were yellowed around the edges and wrinkled from a too-close encounter with water sometime in their distant past, but he smiled. The copies he and Steve read so long ago had looked exactly like these, minus the age and mildew. He walked over to the closed door. "Thanks!" he called, and hoped she heard him over the angry anarchist.

He picked up the box and moved it to a corner of the landing where no one would trip over it, then went back to mopping the second floor hall.

Too bad Jackie wasn't into Tarzan, but it was nice to know someone appreciated a clean floor as much as he did.

tbc...

Endnotes:

OC's from Mr. Fix It that are may be mentioned here:

Kowalski: Bucky's best friend in the building, or as much of a best friend as he can have at this point in his life. Kowalski is a 40-something bachelor, a semi-out-of-the-closet gay man, probably drinks a little too much, but is very kindhearted and into sports (watching, not playing). Wears glasses, works in the insurance field, has a nephew who's a vet with PTSD, so he knows how to handle Bucky on his bad days. Has a big orange cat named Mambo. Plays pinochle with several people in the building, including Charlie Bender, who is a computer geek who loves hazelnut creamer in his coffee. Kowaski has a sister he would love to convince Bucky to date. (Editorial commentary: Kowalski is not a typical fandom fetish 'hot, white gay guy.' My goal with him is to show that not all gay men are hot and white, even though Kowalski is white and of Polish/German descent because that fits the real-world demographic of that neighborhood. This story is not about smut but about, as much as possible, realistic characters populating a realistic world, where not everyone is hot for each other. You want smut, it ain't here. /editorial commentary)

Mr. Franklin: the owner of the building. Very big black man, possibly an ex-NFL player though I haven't decided on that yet. Kindhearted, gives Bucky the job of maintenance man and building superintendent.

Mrs. Eichelberger: cranky old biddy who lives on the first floor. She gave Bucky a griddle pan and other kitchen tools so he could make his pancakes. Catholic, 2-pack a day smoker, doesn't get out much. Spends most of her day wearing a housecoat and slippers as she watches TV. She has a somewhat generous heart somewhere under all the prickles and thorns.